Prayer
by wbss21
Summary: Loki listens. And he hears the mortal's prayers. Sometimes he will deign to answer them.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Okay guys! So, I just had this idea the other day, and thought I'd give it a go. I hope you enjoy. I'm playing around with some actual, Norse mythology in this story and changing it to fit and include it with the film canon, etc… So there's just that warning. Otherwise, nothing really to worry about. **

**With that, enjoy, and please, let me know what you think!**

**Prayer**

**Chapter 1:**

_Asgard 523 BC_

Within his rooms, inside his bed chamber, along the mat of finely woven straw which serves for his place of rest, Loki sits.

And he listens.

Eyes closed and legs crossed beneath him, hands rested against his knees, back straight postured.

Innumerable voices fill his mind, thousands upon thousands overlapping and blending and fusing together as one.

He listens, and he waits, working to discern those which merit interest.

There are _so_ many.

And he must choose with care.

Mortals.

Humans.

Beings who worship his own people as their gods. Who offer sacrifice and loyalty and send up their prayers in desperate supplication, longing to be heard. To be answered.

Among them all, Loki knows, it is only he who truly listens.

They all are capable; his brethren. They all may hear, if they would open themselves to it as he does now.

But they do not.

So rare the occasion one among his peers takes heed the prayers of mortals, he can scarcely recall when last another beside him did.

Several centuries, at least.

The mortals are beneath their notice; or so sounds the general thought.

But Loki is wont to disagree, as he is with so many the notions of the Aesir.

There is something of value to be gained, walking amongst the men and women of Midgard.

Of that, he is certain.

If not for simple amusement, and Loki can think of little else more valuable than to smile and laugh and _enjoy_, then to _learn_. To experience and discover and observe.

The mortals and their world, so ever changing, never remaining the same for more than the passing of a decade, and yet it is their natures which stay fixed.

In spite of all that shifts and moves around them, the ways in which their own led lives change, in which they govern and control themselves, and the rapid development of adaptation, despite it all, they themselves fail always to learn.

Fail to lift above what is their constant struggle to survive.

They have learned to harvest food, not simply hunt after it. But still, there is famine and hunger and greedy hording of sustenance.

No longer are their wars consisted of small skirmishes between bands of nomads, but large in scale and breadth, and fought with weaponry of so much greater savagery than the sticks and stones of long before. And Loki is without doubt those weapons will grow in power rapidly, to one day the threat of their own existence.

Yet still those wars are fought for the same, petty desires and consuming fears.

Ownership of land and the power of rule. Loki has naught seen a Realm filled with _so many_ Kings and Lords, Ceases and Emperors.

And Loki finds himself wondering often, _to what end_?

They die so quickly, these humans.

No sooner does one gain the power and control he so seeks, does he than die but a handful of seasons later, from either the failing body of his decrepit age, or the jealous betrayal of one among his peers, lusting after that power and control himself.

Loki knows the gods look upon the petty struggles of mortals with disdain. Disgusted by their frailty and pathetic clinging to life.

But Loki can muster no such contempt for the creatures.

He finds them instead… _fascinating_.

They fight with such _fervor_, one might even say _valiantly_. Even knowing their own end, knowing their own mortality. It does nothing to lessen their will to _live_. And Loki can at times find himself almost _admiring_ the little beings, if for nothing else than their nerve in the face of their own purposeless existence.

And so he listens, and he hears their prayers, and at times, when whim takes him thus, he will answer.

He is the only one that does.

Yet in this are those times the trickster god may feel some form of resentment towards the mortals. For rare is it his answering presence is met with gratitude and joy, but rather wariness and fear.

His reputation, apparently, proceeds him.

He sneers at the thought.

He does not understand the apprehension with which he finds himself regarded, among them most especially.

Aye, he is a trickster, and it is not beyond him to play such tricks upon the humans.

But ever is his mischief harmless and without malice. And by the Norns, has not he gifted them with the greatest tool of their survival?!

Is it not he who brought them the gift of deception and guile and wit? Is it not he whom taught the mortals to _lie_?

And what would their lives be without such knowledge as he has imparted them?

By Odin's beard, they would all be dead! With their violent and lustful natures and fear driven intents, without the ability to deceive, to hide and bend the truth, they all would have torn each other limb from limb, and never made it to the _civilized_ empires they boast so proudly of now.

And yet when he reveals himself to them, they stumble back in horror and dismay, and look upon him with inherent mistrust, at times, outright hatred.

Worst of all are those ones who dare berate him, jabbing angry fingers through the air towards his person and lamenting that it was _Thor_ whom they sent their prayers to. And why had he come, why had he stolen Thor's prayers?

_Thor_?

Loki wants, nay, often _does_ laugh in the face of their protests.

Thor, his oafish older brother, has all the interest in their affairs and concerns as a cat has with the well being of a _mouse_. He desires so much to tell them, but holds his tongue in respect to his kin.

And how simple they must be, to deign Thor's presence more vital to them than his?

Thunder and lightening are spectacular but unnecessary tools to their goal of survival. The ability to lie and fool are _not_. And aye, Loki will grant, Thor brings them rain, and in this, he is essential to their lives.

But no more than he!

It causes the mischief god to bristle in frustration at the injustice of it all, and there have been those times, he will admit to himself, he thought to wash his hands of the mortals and close his ears to their cries and pleas as the rest of his people have done.

But… no matter his resolve in those moments of indignant rage, he again and again finds himself drawn back to their entreaties, listening… and going…

As he listens now, all will focused on their words.

Most are beneath his consideration, or his ability, and he spends not more than an instant hearing before he shifts on to the next. Humans begging for rain, for a healthy crop. Less acknowledgeable, praying for fortune and renown, or to be noticed by the one they pine for.

Others begging to be saved from tormenting giants or trolls, those Loki gives greater thought to, and often will he travel to Midgard to answer such calls.

Always he thinks of Thor on such excursions, and how jealous his brother would be, to know he was missing out on such an opportunity as to thrash the enemies of the Aesir.

But such are the benefits of hearing the cries of humans, and there is little much he can do, if the crown prince sees not the merits in the activity.

Loki has tried to tell him, to share in the adventure, but Thor, he listens not, more contented to lead his own quests and horde all the glory himself. He has naught a tendril of interest if it is not he leading the charge.

Foolish oaf.

Loki lights upon one such prayer, a man, a farmer, praying to the gods for salvation from a marauding troll, a beast who has been tormenting their village for a fortnight. The creature has destroyed many a crop and stolen countless of their livestock already, and this is not the first prayer Loki has received concerning this particular monster.

He is just on the cusp of accepting the plea when another voice pulls him from his decision.

A child's voice.

A girl's.

Loki's brow furrows as he listens.

Her voice is soft, barely heard, and he might have missed it had not his concentration been so refined.

Children's prayers.

Theirs are the only ones he receives and answers for pure sake of the sender.

For benefit to them and no incentive to himself.

Children.

They are his only worshipers who receive him without judgment. Who look upon him without fear or mistrust in their eyes. Without scowling faces and displeased sneers, but only awe and excitement for a god gracing their presence, for having their voices heard by one among their Lords.

He dismisses the farmer's prayer quickly, and re-concentrates his mind on the girl.

She is young, he can tell. Perhaps no more than twenty seasons.

And her prayer is filled with tears, distressed and broken and full of despair.

A state unfitting in one so young.

She begs for her father, for the life of him, months since departed from their world, and Loki feels himself hesitate.

Many has he brought back from the brink of their own demise. Pulled from the clutches of Hela herself and their bodies restored.

He has saved _many_ lives.

But never has he deigned to recapture an already departed soul and return it to its body. Restore it to life when already it has been dead.

Never has he answered such a prayer, though countless of such he has received.

But the girl…

She is so _very_ young, and alone, and in her tearful pleas he hears desperate hope and _belief_.

She trusts in her gods to hear her, and help her.

She trusts in _him_.

It is against all good judgment, to answer her.

He knows this.

A foolish endeavor at best. Idiotic heroics more attuned to Thor's line of thinking than his own.

To go to her can only lead to his own detriment, of that, Loki is certain.

But he has heard her, and she _believes_.

Her faith is strong.

Stronger than most.

And he cannot deny this girl her faith.

He cannot deny her her trust in him.

His eyes open, and he stands, gathers his armor to him, his staff and his helm.

And he steps through to the spaces between.

He walks to her.

To Midgard.

Only a shadow of himself left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

The room is small. Tiny, really. And dimly lit.

A lone candle placed within its holder atop a writing desk the only illumination provided.

But Loki sees well regardless, and along the floor, beside a sleeping matt not so unlike his own, sits the girl upon her knees, her head bowed and hands clasped and clutched to her chest, soft words chanting into open, empty air.

The room is cold. It is winter in this region of Midgard, and there is little insulation in the ramshackle home of this child, the walls thin, the frozen air of outside penetrating easily through.

The god frowns slightly, taking in the girl's garb. Nothing more than a thin gown of moth eaten wool, legs and feet bare and dirty, hair fallen unkempt and haphazard over her face, tangled and unwashed.

Poor, then.

Not unexpected.

So often prayers belong to the poor.

For several moments longer, Loki watches her, she unaware of his presence. Until at last he decides to shift towards her, silent in his approach. She does not hear him, does not turn to look, until he stands behind her directly, and with a gentle hand, he reaches out, placing it softly upon her thin shoulder.

She startles, spinning about in panic as he withdraws his touch, staring down at her unmoving.

She gazes up at him with wide, shocked eyes, fallen back onto her hands, and indeed it is as he suspected, the child is no more than five Midgardian years.

He says nothing, simply lets her observe, wondering if she will understand who he is.

Her eyes move over his form, taking in his intricate and rich attire.

He is dressed in a fine, silken tunic of deep, forest green, atop that adorned by a breastplate of black dyed leather and pure gold trim, along his forearms vambraces made of gold just as clean. And over that still, a full, body length surcoat of finer leather still, dyed to match the black and green of tunic and armor. His breeches are leather, also black, and upon his feet he wears calf high boots of the same shade, golden buttons to do up their sides. Across his back, he wears a cloak, also of silk, a slightly lighter hue of green, held across his broad shoulders by silver brooches, designed and boasting intricately carved runes.

Atop his head he wears a horned, golden helm, the horns curving upwards, and his height is such that they nearly scrap the ceiling of the room.

In his right hand he holds a plain, wooden staff, though obviously finely crafted.

More than his garb though, the girl is caught by the unnatural paleness of his flawless, white skin, and the impossible black of his hair, that which is still visible beneath the helm, deeper than the pitch of darkest night. Features so sharp and strong as to be unimaginably handsome and refined.

And his _eyes_!

How they _glow_ in the dark of the room, an iridescent green, seeming one shade a moment, and then another entirely the next. And the inconceivable _brightness_ of them. It should not be _possible_.

And suddenly she knows.

Suddenly the girl knows whom she looks upon. _What_ she looks upon. And she falls forward in supplication, forehead bowing to the floor, hands spread out and laid flat before her.

"My Lord…" she breaths in a hushed, reverent voice.

Loki smiles.

And he crouches, soundless as he shifts down, reaching out and placing the palm of his hand along the crown of her head.

"Rise, child." He commands.

There is a moment of hesitation, but quickly she complies.

As she does, he keeps his hand upon her, and watches her eyes grow wide at the warmth radiating from his touch through her, warming her chilled form, chasing away the cold which has settled in her bones.

The look of deferent awe upon her small features is enough to stretch his smile to a grin, and he waits to pull away until she is fully warmed and comfortable.

For long seconds more then, she stares up at him, unabashed, mesmerized, and he looks back, smiling softly now, assuring.

Until he sees her swallow with some difficulty, her tongue coming out to swipe across her lips, trying to wet them to speak.

"… Y-you are my Lord Loki." She says, astonished. "Prince of the Aesir! God of mischief and lies and chaos!"

Loki inclines his head, still smiling.

And the girl can hardly believe her eyes as she watches him sweep back the tail of his coat and cape, and settle down off the balls of his feet to sit, cross legged across from her.

He lays his staff across his lap, eyes fixed on her, regarding.

"Please," he says, gesturing lightly towards her, and his voice is the richest, smoothest voice she has ever heard. "Relieve yourself."

It takes her a moment to catch his meaning, but quickly she does, and she maneuvers herself to match his pose, sitting cross legged before him. Still she bows her head in deference, and she hears his deep laughter resonate through the space.

"You are a fine child." He says, and she dares to glance up.

His eyes are playful now, mirthful, and she can't quite help the small smile which tugs at her own lips.

His enthusiasm is catching.

"Th… thank you, my Lord." She replies shyly, lowering her gaze once more.

And for some moments, the room falls in silence.

She wants to look up. She wants to _stare _at him.

For he is impossible.

And yet there he sits before her.

A god.

_A true Aesir_!

She can scarcely believe her prayers were heard, that she drew such a magnificent being to her through voice alone.

But she daren't raise her eyes again for fear of offending him.

And then his voice is once more through the room, quiet, she notices, soft, but somehow unerringly clear.

"Your name, child?" He asks.

Again she swallows, trying to make her throat work.

"… Ingrid." She manages, voice slightly trembling. "O-of the house of Bjorn."

"Ah." She hears her Lord say, as though he knew the answer already.

He regards her quietly then a long moment, brow arched in contemplation.

"You sent prayer." He states, and she nods.

"Yes, my Lord."

And she tries to curb the rapidly swelling hope in her breast, that what she wishes might yet be granted.

Her mother has told her it is a foolish wish. That her father is gone and is not coming back. That once taken in the grasp of Hela, no soul beyond those of the gods can return.

But Ingrid could not believe it.

She did not believe the world so cruel as to steal her father from her before she was yet old enough to truly value him.

And so she'd prayed.

And her prayer had been answered.

Mother would scarcely believe it!

"You ask much." Her thoughts are interrupted by his strangely soft voice, and she can't help it, she looks up, eyes wide and pleading.

He is looking back at her, expression stoic and unreadable.

"P-please my Lord, I… I know. I know what I ask is much, but… but I miss him. I miss him so badly." She begs. "He did not die a w-warrior, he was murdered and… and…"

"I know." He says softly, and she stops, eyes shocked.

He says nothing then for long seconds, simply sitting, still as a statue, and Ingrid finds herself holding her breath, sick with anticipation of his response.

Until at last, he inclines his head, giving a single nod.

"Indeed." He says. "Your grief is a burden heavy, especially for one so young."

She remains silent, staring still, forgetting all proper respect in sudden desperation.

She can't even begin to tell what he's thinking, and it scares her.

But then, suddenly, he is smiling again, and he reaches out, taking her chin gently between his long, thin fingers, tilting her face up farther to meet his gaze.

His hands are cool, actually _radiating_ cold, but his touch sends a comforting warmth through her the likes of which she's never known. The contrast would be unsettling, if not for the utter feeling of contentedness it brings her.

It sets her at ease, into a state of unbound relaxation, and she feels herself slumping slightly in his hold. Not weak, just… safe.

As though everything will be alright.

"You are bold, Bjorndottir," he says softly. "and of great spirit."

He gazes at her thoughtfully, head tilted aside.

"Your prayer will be granted." He says finally, giving a nod. "You have my word."

And Ingrid cannot contain herself then, leaping up and launching herself towards him, throwing her arms about the god, burying her face to his chest.

He smells of ash wood and clover and metal, and a scent she cannot place, something cool and like the very air, if air had a smell at all.

Like the sky, she thinks.

Loki Skywalker, she remembers one of his many names.

He stiffens slightly, taken aback at the gesture.

It would be thought sacrilege, for a mortal to touch a god so. To initiate contact of any kind.

No mortal has ever touched him thus. Thrown themselves at his feet, surely, kissed the toes of his boots or the knuckles of his hand when he has offered such.

Never has a mortal embraced him.

… Rarely has anyone at all.

And Loki is not a cruel god, despite what the stories may say, and as his own surprise dissipates, he simply reaches up, embracing the child back, one, large palm cupping the back of her head.

She is such a frail thing, he thinks as he holds her. And he wonders at her ability to make it through even one, harsh winter's night.

But the tenacity of humans, he remembers and smiles.

She mumbles against him, words muffled and thick with tears.

"Thank you Lord Loki, thank you, thank you."

He shushes her, and without thought, he bends his neck, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, kissing her gently.

Minutes go by, and he continues to hold her, until he feels her begin to still, her breaths coming more even and calm, and he leans back, looking down at her and grinning.

She stares up at him with her large eyes and tear stained cheeks, and he reaches up, brushing strands of unruly hair from her face, back behind her ear.

"Now," he begins. "you will rest child. And when you wake, your father will be returned to you."

He can see the protest in her eyes, ready at her lips. But before she can speak a word, he presses two fingers to her temple, the flow of his magic working from him to her, and an instant later, she falls limp and unconscious.

He catches her, arms across shoulders and the bend of her knees, standing with her. She weighs nothing to him, and he moves silently towards her sleeping matt, dropping to one knee to lay her gently there.

He considers a moment before resting her head down, and upon deciding, waves his free hand, conjuring a pillow of goose down, lowering her onto it, and then a thick blanket of wool across her body.

He tucks the quilt around her shoulders, bunching it warm and tight, and for a moment after, just watches her, breathing quiet and steady.

This too him is familiar.

So very much.

Perhaps what he most hesitates of for the coming journey.

To see _her_, and all the pained memories of _loss_…

He banishes the thoughts quickly. He gave this child his word, and there is no breaking of that bond.

Bending down one last time and placing a kiss upon the girl's forehead, her smiles at her.

"Dream well child." He says, near soundless. "Dream well."

And as he stands, he parts the planes of this world, and once more, steps through, naught but a flash of green and white light to follow in his wake, evidence of his existence there gone with the cold, winters wind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

The entrance to Hel is not easily passable, even for one such as he.

There is a reason the gods are loath ever to set foot in this Realm.

Barely has he passed through the threshold of her front gates before he is met by Garmr, the Helhound, snapping and snarling inches from his face, hot breathed spit promising to drown him in its volume.

Loki smiles up at the beast, neck craned to look into the dogs eyes, untroubled by the display of violence and hostility, hands folded calmly at his back and foot rested upon some protruding rock.

"Who dares seek entrance through the gates of Hel?" The dog hisses in multi-toned voice.

"Ho, Garmr!" The god calls up in greeting, own teeth showing in a grin. "It is I, Loki, come to seek passage and audience with your Queen!"

The hound eyes him suspiciously, as all beings are wont to do.

"What business has the trickster with the Ruler of the dead?" He asks.

And Loki's grin widens.

"Any and all." He replies smoothly. "Though this day it is of a more specific sort."

Garmr bares his savage teeth, thick with drool and blood. Loki can see the bones of others who sought passage and failed stuck between the hound's gums.

He doesn't flinch.

"My Queen is displeased with you trickster!" He says in reply. "You have stolen many a soul from her hand in recent times."

Loki simply shrugs.

"And I have provided her with thrice as many in as many seasons. She has no cause for complaint with me thus."

Garmr lashes out, pulled short from devouring the mischief god's face by mere inches as the chain round his neck snaps him backwards.

Loki remains unmoving, expression the same.

"You dare question the Queen's notions?!" He growls.

Loki nods.

"I do and I have. I have earned at least this right. Now, will you allow me by, or must I work my way round you?"

In his right hand, the god rotates his wooden staff, drawing the hound's eyes to it, the meaning clear.

Garmr snarls.

"You think you can best me with a flimsy stick of wood?" Blood red eyes shift back to the trickster, venomous in their hatred.

Loki only grins.

And before the dog can react, he twists the staff round, cracking it _hard _across the beasts maw, a resounding thwack echoing through the stone walls and cavernous ceiling above.

Garmr howls in rage, blood dripping slow from his lips, and when he strains again against his chains, Loki hits him another three times in quick succession, across the temple, the eyes, and the snout.

"COWARD!" The hound cries.

Loki just laughs.

"Am I now?" He asks easily, unbothered, and without warning, he's leapt up, landing upon the dog's nose and rushing forward, jamming the staff point down across the crown of Garmr's skull, and propelling himself up it, flipping himself to land facing the entrance.

"I cannot express the number of times I've been assailed with that particular insult." He goes on, running forward.

Garmr thrashes and shakes his head violently side to side, trying to throw the god from him. But Loki somehow maintains his balance, and in a moment, he has the staff jammed between the hound's jaws, pulling back with all his strength, jerking the dog's head back.

Garmr howls, and Loki's own teeth bare in effort.

"It affects me little these days." He continues, beginning to heat the staff through touch, scorching the roof of the beast's mouth. Over the dog's cries of agony, he says,

"Coming from one such as you, less so even."

Garmr is struggling viciously now, tendrils of smoke beginning to lift from his forced open jaw, but Loki gives no slack, no sign of release.

And when the dog starts to whimper, he hears her voice, calling out from all sides around him.

"Let the hound go, Loki."

A sly smirk pulls up along the gods lips, and with one, final jerk, he vanishes the staff and leaps off the dog's nose, landing in a crouch before him, turning to face back past him.

"May I pass?" He asks Garmr once more in formality.

The dog's ears are pricked and listening for the command, even as his tail has curled between his legs.

"Allow him by, pet." Again, her voice echoes around them, and without further protest, the hound steps aside, keeping his gaze fixed away in humiliation as Loki saunters past, refusing to acknowledge the mocking bow of head towards a bested foe.

/

The paths of Hel are treacherous.

And Loki knows one does best to stay upon them, and not wander astray.

All around him, on either side of the thin strip of solid ground he walks, littered with dust and decay, is the stench of death, and pools of swirling, sickly green light, steam rising up off their surfaces in tendrils of wispy, white smoke.

Loki knows, if he were to look over the edge, into those pools, he would see the countless souls of those mortal and immortal who met their ends dishonorably. Not in the fields of battle, or defending hearth and home, but by whatever other means of death there are in the Realms. Those innumerable, immeasurable other means.

So many of them, so many souls, they seem to form a wash of liquid, like a green tinged ocean, all of them swimming together, around and around, bound in their shame for endless eternity.

There are few things to unnerve the trickster god, but coming here, to this place, has always left a feeling unpleasant in the pit of his stomach. Walking through these dank and cavernous halls, ceilings pitched so high, even his sharp eyes cannot penetrate their black, or the shadows which fall across the walls and stretch unnaturally against what little light there is.

In ways, it reminds him of those times he has stood at the edge of Asgard's Rainbow Bridge, and stared down into the nothingness of the Void.

… Imagined himself falling through the emptiness of that space, helpless and alone and lost.

Sometimes he is met with awful sights in his dreams, nothing but darkness around him, and deafening silence. The sensation of dropping and no way to stop himself, no place of purchase to hold fast to.

He supposes it is a result of his walking between stars, across those paths forbidden by the AllFather. He imagines himself slipping, and falling from those paths, into the black deep.

He imagines himself now slipping and falling into these pools of lost souls, their thousands of hands grabbing at him and dragging him under, too strong for him to fight, too strong for him to break free.

Pulling him under to lie condemned with them for all time.

What dark thoughts possess his mind, Loki thinks.

What dark thoughts indeed.

Never should one wonder why they call him the Black Prince.

He knows not then how she bears it.

How she can sustain her sanity in such a place.

But Loki reminds himself she is of special make. And to the land of the dead, perhaps, she is well fitted beyond any other.

It is why, he knows, she forged her place and took command so quickly upon being cast down into Nilfheim by Odin himself.

Within two centuries, she had made her throne and won the loyalty of the dead.

She their custodian. She their protector.

The Kingdom of Hel hers to rule.

Separate from all the rest.

And there she sits, upon her chair of blackest obsidian, half her face of indescribable beauty, radiant and glowing and eyes of absolute pitch, skin as pale and hair as dark as his own.

The other side, rotted flesh and visible, white bone, bald but for stray wisps of white hair, clinging defiantly to her exposed skull.

Upon her frame, she wears a gown of heavy silk, green and black and silver white trim, and of patterns more intricate than anything found in the Realm Eternal. One hand, snow white skin and full with the smoothness of youth, veinless, grasps loosely over the arm of her chair. The other, withered and skeletal, lies dead on the other.

Half living, half dead.

Hela, Queen of Hel.

Still, after so long, his eyes moving over her unshifting form, he finds his breath stolen in awe of her magnificence.

He sweeps his cloak back, dropping in deference to one knee before her, hand clenching to fist and held across his heart.

His head bows.

"My Queen." He greets.

Echoing silence and too still.

"… Father." She greets back.

And Loki smiles.

/

He waits for her to give the command, sensing when she motions with her fingers for him to lift his face.

When he does, he grins, and pride swells his heart for his beautiful child.

His _daughter_…

Oh, how he has missed her.

He moves to stand, but a sharp shake of her head stops him cold, and he sinks back to his knee, forearm held against his thigh, fist still clenched. His other hand braces against the cold stone of the floor.

He may be her Father, but here, he is within her domain, and he will pay her reverence.

He waits, what seems forever for her to address him.

When she does, her voice is hard and clipped.

"Why have you come here Father?" She asks, and Loki cannot help the slight twinge of hurt he feels at the coldness in her tone.

He tries to remind himself that as ruler of Hel, she has little choice but to be this way. There is no room for sentiment in the land of the dead. For the keeper of souls passed on.

Still, when he remembers back to the excitable, yet shy little girl she had been, clinging to his side and trailing after wherever he wandered, crying 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…'

He banishes the thoughts and lifts his chin.

"My Queen," he says. "I come bound to duty in answer of a mortal's prayer."

Hela's face is impassive, unreadable, even to him, and for long, silent seconds, she regards him so.

"You come to retrieve a soul." She says, and there is no shock in Loki that she knows already of his mission.

"Aye." He nods. "The father of a child. A little girl."

And finally, a vague smirk pulls up along the Queens lips, tugging at one corner of her mouth.

"Are you given now to sentiment Father?" She asks unkindly. "That you would answer such a prayer?"

"I am given to whim." Loki answers, matching her easily. "I heard her prayer, and I thought to answer it."

Hela's smile turns full to a grin.

"You are well the most talented liar in all the Nine, Father." She says. "But you deceive only yourself in believing you can fool me. This girl…"

And here Hela leans forward in her throne, regarding Loki closely.

"She reminds you of myself, does she not?"

At her words, Loki stiffens.

He cannot help it.

He stares back at her a moment, unflinching, before slowly, he nods.

"Aye." He replies.

And Hela falls back, nodding in return.

"Oh, Father, have the millennia softened you so? That you would risk your own, immortal soul for the sake of a girl whose life will be over in less than half of a century from now?"

Her words are sharp, smile sharper still as she stares down at him.

"Certainly, I hope, it is not guilt for your own absence in your only daughter's life which drives you to such foolishness."

Loki stares back at her a long moment, eyes narrowed.

A familiar and undesired chill licks at the inside of his belly, for he knows the truth in his daughter's words.

She knows this to be a weakness in him, and more does he bemoan the fact she now chooses to target it, for there is cruelty in Hela which had not been present in her youth, and he knows it is this place which has conditioned it to her. Knows it is his failure as a father, which allowed her to be taken from him and cast out, powerless to save her from her fate.

The trickster tricked by the only other more sly than he. He who sits on High. His _own_ father.

If he had been there, if he had _been_ there, she would not have been stolen, she would not have…

"Perhaps." He answers her, voice steady and unwavering despite the sick wave of nausea which threatens him from inside. "But who can sit in judgment upon a father's love for his daughter? And who can find fault in a father's wish to make right the failures of his past upon his children?"

Hela says nothing to that, staring at him with cold, unmoving eyes.

"I love you, daughter." Loki dares to say. "This mortal child, I know that in aiding her, I will not win you back to me. I will not rescue you from this place. I do this for the girl's sake, for her loss. Aye, perhaps in empathy of how that loss might ravage her heart. But it is for her I answered, not me."

He waits, silent, as she observes him, eyes scrutinizing and penetrating.

Anyone other would look away from that gaze, he knows. Unsettled by what they glimpsed there.

Not he.

He is her Father.

He knows her well as she knows him.

Until finally, she stands, long gown flowing and pooling at her feet, rustling fabric as she takes a single stem down the dais, and pauses.

"I will grant you this soul," she says, and Loki straightens, anticipating already the price. "but first you must retrieve for me something."

He nods in understanding and acceptance.

"What is it my Queen wishes?" He asks.

Without warning, she tosses something at him, and he reaches out, catching it one handed.

Uncurling his fingers around it, holding it in his palm, he sees it is a vile of some sort, corked at the top.

The clear glass of it shimmers unnaturally, and he knows already it is imbued with enchantment. Whatever this vile is meant to hold, no ordinary container will do.

He gazes down at it a long moment, before lifting his eyes to her, staring questioningly.

She smiles ruefully at him, seeming regret flashing in her dark eyes.

He feels his stomach coil in unpleasant anxiety at the look.

"You must retrieve for me venom from the snake of your imprisonment." She says, and anxiety turns to outright fear, the first he has felt in many, many a century.

He stares, for a moment, speechless.

Until finally he is able again to find his words, but when he moves to speak, only one sprouts forth from his numb lips.

"_Why_?" He asks.

"Because it is what I desire." She answers quickly. "The price I require in return for one among my souls."

Loki dares to rise unbidden then, sweeping his cloak back and stepping towards her.

"You would be so cruel to your own father?" He asks heatedly, unable to contain his emotion.

Hela remains unmoved.

"It is not cruelty." She answers.

"It _is cruelty_!" He snaps, voice pitched in anger. "You would send me to face the creature responsible for my greatest physical torment? That which I barely escaped with my life?"

She smiles thoughtfully.

"If it pacifies your indignation, Father, think of it then as a test. A measure of your conviction."

Loki frowns, taking another step towards her.

"I am honor bound." He says. "I gave the child my word. You know it is a pact unbreakable."

"Then consider it a chance to prove the worth of your word to those who would doubt it." She responds easily.

Loki's fingers clasp around the vile reflexively, and through him he feels his magic course, wanting to shatter the damned container and throw the broken shards at his daughter's feet.

He glances away, willing himself to calm his rising anger and dismay.

"… You do me insult, daughter." He says softly, voice dangerous.

"Mmm," Hela hums in turn, unfazed. "Perhaps I do."

A moment passes.

"Nevertheless, that is my price. If you wish to keep your promise to the mortal, you must do as I ask. Or your word will be naught but worthless to all who know you."

"Much as they regard it now, the loss may indeed be negligible." He mutters bitterly.

And Hela laughs.

"Indeed Father, but that is their folly, not yours. I know you good for your word, and that is why I ask of you so daunting a task. So that all may see their misdeed in thus judging you, and eat the foul taste of their own ridicule."

Loki glances to her then, watching her carefully.

And she smiles.

A genuine smile.

One he knew of her as a girl.

"I _have_ grown cruel Father." She says, and her voice is softer. "Unkind. But I know you understand the reasons why. And I _do _love you as you do me. Know that always. I do this not to hurt you, but to help. I see how you are regarded, and it is unjust. They know you not as I do."

And whatever anger had been blooming in his heart, it vanishes into nothing.

Clever, clever Hela. His clever, darling girl.

For the brief time he had had with her, he thinks, at least he raised her well.

He smiles back, straightening, lifting his chin.

"My daughter," he says, grinning. "only could you inspire me towards such a task as this with enthusiasm."

And with that, he twists his hands, vanishing the enchanted vile into one of his pockets, before once more sweeping his cloak back and bowing, low, before his daughter.

"Queen Hela," he says, lifting his face back to her. "I shall return in short with your stated price."

Hela smiles fondly back, inclining her head.

"I would expect nothing less of you Father."

They share gazes a moment longer, before at last, Loki turns, and strides with purpose from the hall of his daughters Realm.

/

**AN: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter! I hope you enjoyed this one, and please let me know what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

He stands at the mouth of the cave, right hand lifted, long fingers curled and pressed, gripping along the stone entrance.

He feels sick.

The smell is overpowering, dank and unpleasant, and thick with the metallic stench of _blood_.

_His _blood…

For a moment, he feels as though he cannot breathe, and his head bows, sucking in sharply, trying to force air to his lungs.

Eyes close in an attempt to stop the rush of dizziness which suddenly takes him.

This place…

This place is the stuff of his nightmares still.

It takes several minutes before he feels composed enough to again straighten, and another few before he works the courage to step forward, into the dark.

As he does, he lifts a palm, a small, green flame jumping to life within it, illuminating a small circumference around him.

He can feel his heart beating painfully against his ribcage, breath coming in quick, rapid spurts.

He realizes with disdain he is actually _afraid_, and he hates himself for this particular weakness.

He shouldn't be.

There is no reason.

He's long been free of the torture he endured here.

But as he moves deeper into the cave, the light from the entrance dwindling to nothing, only his tiny flame now for company, he is reminded of _why_ he still dreams such terrible memories of his time here.

There, in the heart of the cavern, black as pitch all around him, he comes upon the slab of stone, raised perpendicularly several feet from the floor, the stink of blood a wave washing over him and invading his lungs and nostrils.

And he sees it, dried, deep red, darkened almost brown and black from centuries past, covering almost the entirety of the stone bed, streams of it poured over the sides, splashes and drops all along the surrounding ground.

Loki freezes, the rush of memory crippling his advance and leaving him paralyzed.

He doesn't realize his legs have given out beneath him until he's sitting on his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath again.

And he remembers…

Remembers with too vicious clarity what had led him to this place, and his time here, more than two hundred years past in incomprehensible agony before Thor had finally found and freed him.

It had been Frey, the Vanir god who had lured him to this place and ambushed him, rendered him unconscious. And when he had woken, he had found himself, bound and naked against this rock, and above…

Loki closes his eyes, trying to block the recollection.

Odin had asked him to accompany him on that fateful trip to Vaniheim, to help negotiate with the Vanir Royal council a fair trade between the two Realms, as a sign of good will in the wake of the Aesir/Vanir war which had only reached its end a fortnight previous.

Odin was, and still is always bringing him with him on such excursions, as a political advisor and right hand councilor. Loki remembers the looks of disdain and sneers from those who wondered why the AllFather would choose the second Prince to accompany him and offer advice over the heir to the crown.

He remembers feeling a swell of pride the one time Odin had deigned to explain his reasoning to a group of incensed dwarfs, telling them his youngest was more well versed in matters of politics and treaties, and possessed of a thoughtfulness which better lent itself to such affairs than Thor.

The dwarfs, Loki recalls, had been unconvinced, but he hadn't cared. All that had mattered was that Odin had _acknowledged_ him, and proclaimed him superior to Thor in this _one thing_.

And so that day, in Vaniheim, in the midst of heated argument and negotiation between his Father and the ruler of that Realm, and all their royal court, Loki had thought up a solution.

He had leaned over and spoken quietly against Odin's ear, suggesting the trade of one of Asgard's most esteemed and respected advisors, well regarded as a wise man of great seeing and insight, Mimir, in exchange for the Vanir godess, Freyja, renowned the Realms over for her unparalleled beauty and skill in sorcery, sister of Frey, a high court noble of equal sorcerer renown.

There had been some bantering, some further argument and back and forth conditions, but eventually, both sides had agreed the trade was a fair one, and so contracts had been drawn and signed, and within a week, Mimir was gone from the lands of the Aesir, and Freyja now lived among them.

Loki did not know at the time the infuriated rage he had sparked in the goddesses brother over the exchange.

He had glimpsed the displeasure in the Vanir god that day, while they had all sat in the hall, gathered at the long table. Seen a flash of anger in his eyes.

But he had thought nothing of it.

Freyja was his sister. It was only natural for him to be upset over losing her to another Realm.

But he was assured that she was to be no prisoner, but treated as one of their own, accorded all the respect and acceptance and freedom of any Aesir citizen. And that she would be allowed to visit him in Vaniheim whenever whim took her to do so.

And Frey had nodded and agreed and all had been well.

Of so Loki had thought.

It had been nearly a year after the trade, and peace had flourished between the Realms of the gods, when Loki had received a vision, a plea from Frey himself, begging the trickster's aid in a matter most urgent. He had told Loki it concerned the peace agreement between Vaniheim and Asgard, that events were unfolding which threatened to overturn all the work and progress which had been made between the two Realms, and plunge them back in to the horrors and blackness of war.

He had entreated Loki to come to Vaniheim at once, to discuss matters with him.

When Loki had insisted he inform his Father, Frey had begged him not to, explaining that should the AllFather be made privy now to what transpired, he might forego the chance to defuse the situation before it could develop into something worse.

Loki had been suspicious, wondering why it was Frey refused to explain to him in more detail what was happening, why he was being so vague. Frey had answered that he feared Heimdall would be listening, and couldn't risk the chance he would run to inform Odin before the time was proper. He insisted that Loki come _alone_, so that it might be the Prince of Asgard who could explain the situation to the AllFather. Frey had praised Loki's skill in political affairs, and made note of the trust Odin so very clearly placed in him as an advisor. He expressed his hope that, for these reasons, once Loki was possessed of all the details, Odin would then wait and listen to what Loki himself had to say, and heed his council in how best to proceed.

Loki was no fool.

He had been able to tell Frey was hiding something from him. That he was not speaking truth. At least, not entirely.

But it was also his duty, as Prince of Asgard, to ensure the safety and protection of the Realm, and so he had agreed to meet the Vanir god under the requested conditions.

He had been planning on seeing what it was Frey was truly scheming before dragging his Father into it and burdening him with yet another weight, when already he had so many to bear.

Upon arriving in Vaniheim and entering Frey's hall, though, Loki had found it empty. Not a single soul in sight. Not even any servants.

Loki had known then he had walked into a trap. But by then, it had been too late, and the last thing he remembered before waking up in this cave had been the sound of rushing footsteps behind him, spinning to face his attacker, and being met with the blunt hilt of a sword, smashing hard into his temple.

After that, the world had gone dark, and Loki woke to find himself here…

_It was slow, the lift of his lids._

_They felt weighted down, the effort to raise them impossibly hard._

_That was the first thing Loki became aware of upon regaining consciousness._

_How very heavy his eye lids felt._

_The next thing to seep into his slowly clearing mind was _pain_._

_The temples of his head throbbed with a headache as vicious as any he had ever experienced in the days of his more frail youth, and gradually, he became aware of a sharp hardness, digging into his back, pressing up into his shoulder blades._

_And as the sensation grew more acute with his thoughts, he became distinctly aware of the damp wetness of the air against his skin._

_His skin?_

_Loki's eyes snapped open, and he was met only with more blackness._

_For an instant, he panicked, thinking he had gone blind, but slowly his vision adjusted, and he was able to make out shapes above him, what looked to be an outcropping of rock, perhaps ten feet above his head._

_He swallowed, trying to still his beating heart, trying desperately to remember what had happened._

_And like a wave, it came crashing back to him, and in a swell of rage and frustration, he tried to sit up…_

_Only to be snapped back down at the arms and legs._

_Confusion took him a moment, and he tried again, straining, only to be met with the same result._

_And it was then he realized, with growing horror, as he tried to reach for it in desperation, his _magic_…_

_It was bound to him, somehow, locked deep within, all of its strength and energy, waiting to be tapped, but him unable to reach it, to touch it._

_Again, he pulled at his restraints, heavy, metal cuffs digging ruthlessly into his thin wrists and ankles, pulling with every ounce of strength he possessed. And yet, the chains did not give, did not loosen even a fraction, and a cry of frustration ripped itself from Loki's lips._

_Oh gods, what damned predicament had he gotten himself into now?_

_That was when he heard it. A soft chuckling, somewhere ahead of him, and before he could register to whom the voice belonged, a blue flame ignited, illuminating the space._

_And there before him stood Frey, grinning mockingly down at him, expression smug and satisfied._

_Rage quickly consumed Loki again, and once more, he tore madly at his restraints, face contorted in fury._

_He was naked, he could see now, all his clothes removed and gone, and Frey's eyes fell across his exposed form in seeming curiosity, studying him like some sort of foreign creature._

_Considering…_

"_My, but you are a _pathetic _excuse for an Aesir god." He began suddenly, grasping at his chin in thought. "So _frail_. So small and _weak_."_

_His eyes lifted to Loki's own, grin stretching wider._

"_It is little wonder then, why you are mocked so for your shortcomings on the fields of battle. One wonders how it is you are able to heft even a simple broad sword, with so flimsy a frame as the one you possess."_

"_What have you done to me!?" Loki spat, ignoring the insults. "My magic…"_

"_Is bound." Frey cut him off, stepping closer, walking around until he was standing directly beside the trickster god, staring down at him. "Those manacles round your wrists and ankles? Enchanted, to keep even the most _powerful _sorcerer's from accessing their energy."_

_Without warning, he reached down, cupping Loki's cheek in some mockery of a caress. _

_Loki flinched away, straining again with all his might against the shackles. _

_Frey laughed._

"_Fight all you will." He went on, amused. "You will not break free. These manacles were designed specifically to contain the strength of the gods. Only a god possessed of the strength of Thor could accomplish such a task as snapping them loose."_

_Thor…_

_Thor!_

_Loki turned back to Frey, eyes burning with disdain._

"_When my brother finds me, I swear by Odin's name, he will…"_

_Frey laughed, again cutting him short._

"_Silly boy," he said. "Thor will not find you. Not in this place. _No one_ will."_

_For a moment, Loki felt a cold apprehension curling in his belly, uncertainty taking his insides for the sureness he heard in the Vanir's own voice._

"… _Heimdall…" he chocked out, and again, Frey laughed._

"_Cannot see you." He promised. "This place is cloaked, even from the Gatekeepers sight. You are trapped here, _Prince_ Loki, for as long as I deem fit."_

_He leaned closer suddenly, until his face was mere inches from the mischief god's own, his breath hot against him._

"_And I deem _forever_ a fit sentence served, until the time Ragnarok is upon us." He whispered, and Loki couldn't help it, the building anxiety inside his chest exploding into outright fear._

"_NO!" He cried. "Frey, release me! Whatever I have done to offend you, please, I did not intend such. You cannot keep me here. Do you not realize what this will do to relations between our Realms? What darkness this will bring?"_

"_Oh, I realize, Loki." Frey answered, unmoved. "And I do not care. You brought this upon yourself trickster, by meddling in the affairs of my family and taking my beloved sister _away_ from me!"_

"_Your sister is _contented_ Frey!" Loki tried urgently to reason, to explain. "Please, she is welcome among the Aesir with open arms, she is not a prisoner! You must understand. She is happ…"_

_His voice died in his throat as Frey's hand struck him, hard across the mouth._

"Silence_, you wretch!" The Vanir god hissed. "You have no right to speak of my sister! No right to mention her person!"_

_Blood trickled slow from where Loki's lip had split open, a pained ache working through his jaw from the blow._

_But he was to be given no respite, no chance for recovery as Frey grabbed cruel hold of his jaw and jerked his face forward, sneering down at him with hateful eyes._

"_You will rot here for the rest of your miserable, immortal days, Liesmith, and no one will come to find you. No one will ever see or hear from you again! And better for it will all the Nine Realms be!"_

_He shoved Loki's head back then, cracking his skull against the stone, a perverse smile spreading up across the Vanir god's lips._

"_But, fear not, little Odinson, you will not be alone here in your suffering."_

_Loki stared back at him with dazed, confused eyes, reeling from the blow to the back of his head._

_He swallowed thickly, a hopeless despair beginning to settle into the pit of his stomach as he saw how beyond reason Frey truly was._

"… _What do you mean?" He finally managed._

_And Frey's smile grew wider._

"_Why, look above you Sly One, see who serves as your eternal companion."_

_He gestured forward, to the outcropping of rock Loki had made out above himself in the dark, and without thought, the mischief god's eyes moved to it, widening near instantly at what he then saw there._

_A large, black scaled snake with glowing bright, yellow eyes, half its form actually _embedded_ in the rock, other half hanging over his head like a specter, mouth wide and fangs bared. And upon those fangs tips hung a glistening, milky white liquid._

_Loki had only a moment to consider the substance, to process what it was before the first drop fell, his eyes following its trajectory down, realizing with apprehension it would strike his face._

_And then it did._

_And the pain was unlike any he had ever felt before._

_Purest of agony. Scalding, white hot heat, spreading through and purveying beneath his skin as it burned through the surface, to the muscle and bone beneath._

_Loki tensed, biting back the scream which threatened immediately at his lips, pulling against his restraints._

_And then more drops were hitting his face. _

_Not drops. _

_A stream of the vile venom, _pouring_ onto him, into his eyes, and mouth, drizzling down his throat to his innards._

_And Loki screamed._

_He screamed and he thrashed violently against his shackles, crying out in tortured sobs, even as the venom began to eat away at his eyes, and his vision began rapidly to fail him. Even as he felt his insides turning to liquid._

_He screamed and screamed, until the venom too reached his vocal cords, burning them away to nothing, and only a silent hiss of air broke past his melting teeth._

_He could feel the heat of his own blood, drizzling in pools down his chest, spreading and falling over his stomach, the smell of his own body boiling and burning filling his nostrils, tears streaming unbidden and useless down his temples, into his hair._

_And when the world around him went black, he thought for a moment it was because Frey had put out his flame, and departed, leaving him here to die alone._

_He did not realize at first it was because he had gone blind._

Frey _had _departed, Loki remembers realizing after a time. The utter silence around him telling him he was alone.

He had prayed to whoever would hear a god's prayer for death, hoping beyond all reason he would be answered.

He had thought at first death would come naturally. Even quickly. The venom had burned away at his flesh and insides so rapidly, so efficiently. Even with how quickly the gods were able to regenerate their own bodies, none could have withstood such a constant assault of poisonous death.

But Frey had taken measures to ensure Loki's unending torment. For each time he was on the cusp of giving in to his bodies mutilation, the Vanir god had enchanted the serpent to retreat back into its hole, giving momentary pause to the flow of venom, and so allowing Loki's body to heal itself, allowing Loki to _live_.

Two hundred _years_, he had suffered this ceaseless torture, this unfathomable agony, before Thor had found and freed him.

When he had, Loki had been blind and deaf, and all sense had been forced from his mind.

He had gone insane.

He remembers he hadn't known who Thor was. His own _brother_. And how he had cried out in soundless terror when he had felt the thunder god's hands upon him, breaking the shackles and pulling him into his arms.

He remembers how this stranger had held him against his broad chest and how he had been able to feel with the vibrations through his frame how he wept, stroking his hair and kissing his temple, over and over. And he remembers how he had simply given in, even knowing not who this man who had rescued him from his endless suffering was. He had sagged boneless against him, and wept too, curled and helpless in the stranger's lap.

It had taken nearly two years after that day before Loki began to regain his mind.

Before he was able to tell his family who had done this to him.

And he knows Frey now resides among those lost souls in his daughters Realm.

And he thinks on it sometimes.

Boiling rage rushing to the surface, hands curling to shaking fists, because it isn't _enough_.

It isn't enough for what he endured, Frey simply losing his _life_.

But he had been executed, quickly and mercifully, and Loki had wanted him to _suffer_. If even just a fraction of how he had suffered for two centuries.

But fate was rarely kind to the trickster god, and justice an elusive companion.

He frowns, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, refocusing himself.

He must complete his task here, and quickly, and not linger for longer than necessary.

Lifting his face, he stares up at the blood stained rock, willing the metallic thick air from his senses, forcing his eyes higher, to the outcropping above it.

And there he sees…

His ruin for those long, lost years.

The serpent.

Still in place where he and Thor had left it that day, his brother carrying him from this cursed cave, holding him to him as he would a child…

Never does Loki want to feel that way again.

Never does he want to be so helpless…

So weak…

He forces himself to his feet, choking down the nausea and dizziness which threatens to overtake him, his eyes fixed, unshifting, upon the snake.

He is not helpless any longer, he tells himself, like a mantra, over and over.

He is not bound and powerless.

Not without his magic.

Not chained…

Breathing in deep, he steps forward.

His knees feel precarious, but he concentrates, and will not allow them to buckle.

He can do this.

He is Loki, of Asgard.

He is a god.

And as he steps forward again, feet now from the serpent, he calls forth the vile from his pocket, the cool, enchanted glass pressing against his palm, thin, long fingers curling round it with purpose.

The snake hisses, and recoils at his approach, like it is fearful of him, and Loki wonders at it.

How the creature he came to know as his greatest tormentor could feel any fear at all for him.

When he feels so much fear for it now.

It is every bit as vicious looking as he remembers. Scales like obsidian, eyes a fire yellow.

And there, he sees its fangs, shining in the dark, milk white venom, dripping slow from their tips.

Loki feels his stomach roil, bile threatening to force its way up, and he imagines it scorching it throat…

As the venom had on its way down.

A shutter works its way through his frame, and he closes his eyes, willing himself still.

Steady.

And then he opens his eyes, and stares at the creature, and without further hesitation, he closes the distance, reaching out. His hands are shaking, but he ignores it.

The snake hisses again, and lashes out, striking at him, barely missing sinking its fangs into his flesh.

Sprays of its venom fly forward, catching on his skin, along his hand and face. He flinches back, but immediately, the agonizing burn claws at him, burning and burrowing beneath, to the muscle and bone below, and Loki bites hard on his lip to keep from crying out at the pain.

He cannot stop now. He cannot.

He gave his word.

He cannot flee.

He redoubles his determination, forcing himself through the pain, and quicker than the snake is able to move, he strikes back, grasping the serpent at the neck and base of its skull, squeezing.

The snake writhes, trying desperately to escape his hold, but Loki's fingers are strong, and he refuses to let it free.

He brings the vile up, holding it beneath the serpents forced open mouth, bringing it close to its fangs.

"Give it up, you damnable beast." He hisses.

And then the venom drips, spots of it missing the vile and falling onto his hand. Steam rises from where it hits, and Loki grits his teeth, refusing to move.

He watches as the milky white liquid drains, dripping into the vile. Watches as it fills.

And he holds his position, until half the container is spent, and with a growl, he releases the snake, stepping back, seeing the creatures shrink away then and vanish back into the crevice of its rock.

Loki's face twists is disgust.

"I should kill you, serpent." He mutters.

But no…

He will not.

This snake is a part of him now.

A part of who he is.

A part of what has shaped him.

They are locked in hatred, the two of them.

He will let it live here, as it had let him live.

Corking the vile, he vanishes it away, eyes fixed on the dark hole where he knows the creature lies, staring a long, silent moment.

Before at last, he turns, and without another glance back, he leaves this place once more.

/

**AN: Thanks again to everyone who left a review last chapter, and to all my readers. Hope you enjoyed this one, and please leave a review and let me know what you think.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

His daughter takes the vile from him with her skeletal hand, bone fingers wrapping round it and bringing it to her face, eyeing its contents closely.

She smiles.

"Most excellent." She says softly.

Loki is staring up at her with thoughtful regard.

She continues studying the venom a moment longer, before shifting her gaze to him.

"You did well Father." She says, nodding. "I trust you did not find the task too difficult?"

"I did not find it a child's dalliance." He answers, honestly, and she only smiles in understanding.

He looks at her an instant more, silent, before asking…

"What use have you of it?" And he nods towards the vile.

She vanishes it away to he knows not where, smile turning to a grin.

"It is not the way of the Mistress of Nilfheim to reveal her intentions." She answers.

Loki straightens somewhat, chin raised, eyes narrowing. His hands are folded delicately at his back.

"But I will give you this Father." She goes on. "There is a special soul for whom I wish to taste the fruits of your labor this day."

And she need not say another word.

His own lips pull up in a smile, his eyes glittering in the shadows of her hall.

And he pushes his cloak back, tossing an arm across his abdomen, bowing low before her.

"You have my gratitude, my Queen." He says.

And Hela merely nods.

"Your task is not yet fulfilled, however." She says, and at once, she thrusts her arm aside, and beside him, the ground shifts and sinks and opens to reveal a pool of steaming, green light, the same as those which lined his passage to her hall. Swimming there the souls of the dishonorable dead.

Loki steps back from it instinctively.

"You must retrieve the soul yourself Father. I cannot do it for you." Hela says.

Loki tears his gaze from the pool, looking to her in questioning.

"The promise was yours." She continues in explanation. "Your word to keep. You told the child it was _you_ would fetch her father's soul."

Understanding lights in Loki's eyes, and a sick knot of tension forms quick and cold in his stomach.

He had suspected it would be as this, but he had dared to hope perhaps not.

He only inclines his head in acceptance, turning back then to the pool.

"You will have scarce minutes to find and take hold his spirit before the energy of the pool drains you of your own immortality and the condemned souls drag you beneath with them."

Loki nods, throat muscles working as he swallows hard.

It would be a lie to say he wasn't fearful.

But then, Loki is the god of lies, and it is sometimes himself he lies to best of all.

He steps forward, towards the edge.

"Father!" Hela calls to him, stopping him.

He turns, looking back over his shoulder at her.

She smiles.

"You are a strong and brave god, no matter what the others might say of you." She says. "If anyone is capable of achieving this task, it is you."

And he smiles back, nodding.

And then he turns, and draws in breath.

And then he is taking the plunge.

/

Loki is dying.

It is a feeling and a knowledge as sure as any he has ever had.

The instant he hits the wash of tangled and desperate souls, he can feel them clinging to him with a frightening strength, hundreds of hands latching to his arms and legs, trying with everything they have to drag him under.

It is like drowning. Suffocating. And by the instant, he can feel his own strength draining from him.

Failing him.

Hands reach for his face, palms pressing over his nose and mouth, arms wrapping round his neck, jerking him back and down.

And the most horrifying feeling of all, awful desire to _give in_.

To let these souls take him and make him one of their own.

For a moment, Loki feels himself allow it, growing lax, his muscles loosening, falling limp and useless, and the arms and hands around him tighten, dragging him deeper.

And then like lightening through his brain, realization strikes him, and his eyes snap wide, a surge of strength washing through ever fiber of his being.

He fights, thrashing viciously and throwing the grasping souls from his person, tossing them back and away from him.

They shriek and writhe in protest, turning and launching themselves back at him, reaching out to take hold again.

But Loki will not stay still for them.

He is a god, and when the time comes, he is destined for the halls of Valhalla. Not here.

He knows the longer he stays in this pool, the weaker he will grow, the less capable he will be of fighting the souls off.

And so he dives, and turns, eyes forced wide and searching, looking for the one for whom he has come.

It is nearly impossible to see in the glut of forms swirling and spinning about him, pressing in, and panic threatens at the back of his throat with the seconds past.

He feels fingers brush against his ankles, the backs of his knees and tangling in his hair, and he jerks away, diving deeper still, eyes scanning rapidly.

The souls are relentless, diving after him, pursuing with unyielding determination.

And Loki evades them best he can, always looking, always seeing.

Until, at last, there!

He sees the girl's father, crushed between the throng of bodies before him, a part of their relentless mission to trap him.

He grits his teeth, realizing that to reach him, he will have to throw himself into the midst of their chaos.

His strength is rapidly draining, and he has little time, he knows. If he wishes to be successful, he is going to have to act now.

And so without further delay, he kicks himself forward, batting as many of their hands away as he is able, drawing deeper into the center. He feels them sinking their fingers into his ankles and calves, trying to pull him down. But he presses on, powering through them.

Until finally he reaches his goal, and he throws his hand out, grasping round the soul's wrist and _pulling_.

He drags himself upward, taking the girls father with him, kicking those still hanging to his legs from him and crushing back any others attempting to take hold.

He can see the surface, not far now, and his grip tightens, fingers curling with determined strength round his prize.

Refusing to let go.

And then he is there, and he breaks the surface with a gasp, wrenching his arm upward and tossing the soul from the pool, into the air, watching as it flies high and vanishes, spirited off back to his body.

Loki's fingers dig into the ground at the pools edge, and he drags himself forward, teeth grinding in effort. Almost there.

And then he feels himself dragged back down, nearly losing his purchase.

A startled gasp rips from his lips, eyes going wide.

No!

He will _not_ let them have him!

He is a _god_!

With one, final heave, he pushes forward, nails digging harder into the stone floor, cracking its surface and sinking down.

And with a howl of pure will, he rips himself from the pool, lifting himself over its edge.

He falls forward, strength spent, rolling onto his side, and then his back, gasping for breath.

The hall spins, unceasing, his hands coming up over his eyes, sucking air.

And when he feels a gentle and cold palm upon his forehead, he pulls his hands away, and he sees his daughter there above him, smiling down at him.

"Well done Father." She says, bending and pressing a kiss to his temple. "Well done."

/

**Epilogue **

He watches from the shadows, unseen.

Father and daughter embracing, weeping in happiness, mother and wife stood back, hands clasped over mouth in utter disbelief.

"I don't understand." She chants, over and over. "I don't understand."

And daughter explains.

She prayed to the gods, and one came.

Loki, god of mischief and lies and chaos.

He gave his word to give her her father back.

And back he came.

He has no memory, no recollection of dying. No memory of Hel, or her Mistress, Queen Hela.

No memory of the god who pulled him from his own fate.

And eventually, the wife collapses upon them too, sobbing desperately.

And Loki smiles.

In the least, he will have won their houses loyalty.

It would be simple enough a lie to tell himself that is the reason he did all this.

Why he placed himself in such harms way.

But a lie, still, it would be, and he supposes it hurts nothing to give himself some acknowledgment sometimes.

He sighs, watching the reunited family a moment longer, before stepping back and looking to the Midgardian sky.

Watching her stars.

He closes his eyes, imagining the spaces between them.

Imagining the way back home.

Asgard.

Clear in his minds eye.

Feels the tug of his magic as it envelops him and pulls, and takes him from this place to there.

Stepping upon the branches of Yiggdrasil herself.

There is no sight more beautiful, he thinks.

Not in the whole of the universe.

And he thinks of the daughter and her father.

Sees the face of his own.

… And oh, he is so very tired now.

Wants only to sleep.

Next time, he tells himself…

Next time he answers a prayer, he will spare himself this and simply choose to slay a giant or troll.

… Thor can come too…

If he wants.

/

**AN: And that's a wrap folks! Hope you enjoyed this little story. It was originally meant to be a one-shot, but I figured it would make for an easier read to break it up into parts. Please let me know what you thought, and thanks for everyone who read and reviewed last chapter!**


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